


Zugzwang

by TexasDreamer01



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Major character death - Freeform, Symbolic death, Symbolism, assorted background characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 08:30:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4012762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TexasDreamer01/pseuds/TexasDreamer01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The battle is won and victory is distant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Zugzwang

He had not stopped when he was banished from Thorin's sight. Nobody knew more than the Burglar's sorrowful, anguished gaze upon his face before he had scrambled back, vanishing into thin air as had become his wont. Even with the ragged breathing of their king after his heart-broken and mad tirade, the lack of bare feet padding upon the remains of the balustrade that decorated the terrace seemed to deafen the Company's ears in its sudden silence. It quieted even the inquisitive demands of both the Elven lord upon their doorstep and the Wizard whose presence had been found rather lacking in the past weeks.

In their shock, whiling away the remnants of the sickness the gold had placed upon them, they had arrived late - but apparently not late enough to be entire useless, judging by the Dwarves on the field raising a jubilant cry at their roar of battle - and was met with a blood-soaked field already well on its way to being littered with corpses from both sides. There was little time to bring the Company of Thorin Oakenshield up to speed on the events that happened between the ransoming of the Arkenstone and their emergence on the frigid battlefield, everyone too consumed with meeting the next enemy blade and dodging Elvish arrows aimed at thinning out the opposing ranks.

The battle had seen fit to divide and conquer; and conquer it had, the scattered remnants regrouping with integral members fewer, filtering into the dirtied white tent that housed the weakening body of their leader and king. Witnessing the hoarse, gutted keen of grief as Thorin learned on his own deathbed that the one he had summarily banished remained unfound – and all its implications - was only a match for the forlorn and stricken mask on the face of their lord scant moments later captured eternally in death. A few found themselves cursing the one that had left them – maybe if he had been here, maybe if he had taken to the willful defiance that had long since defined him on the Quest and returned to them (to _him_ , some muttered into their beards, even as they shook their heads at the knowledge that a Hobbit had no place in the middle of a battle, no matter what trinkets he had), the grievous wounds could have been staved off by some miracle, instead of guaranteeing his death by means of facing the slight Thorin's own hands made on a loved one.

Regardless, the solemnity overrode them, and tugging on their beards, those who hadn't taken to helping around the recovering camp loitered outside the tent in an implicit pretense of guarding a late king's body. It was to this scene that an unnamed soldier found them, carrying a bundle wrapped hastily in a spare, tattered banner. It was too small, certainly, their hearts not ready to give in to another blow. But at the determined face of who some among them recognized as Dáin from the neighboring Iron Hills, and of Gandalf (whom they had never seen more grave, nor so sorrowful), the pangs began anew.

He had been found close to the borders of Mirkwood. Whilst everyone camping near the shadow of the mountain had been gearing up in a flurry of frantic activity after spotting the approaching menace oozing out of the forest, those closest had stopped stock-still at the incongruous sight of an individual who barely appeared the size of a thumb-print in comparison to the hoard of Orcs and Trolls and Wargs – the blue glow of a dagger held by the figure proved a stark contrast under the encroaching cloud of bats. The mysterious person had quickly drawn the attention of the recently-allied armies, too far away for Elven bows to lend aid, close enough for many of them to witness the unbelievable disappearance of the dark blue, only for the glowing blade to remain, hacking frantically at the closest enemies.

Bilbo had given a good fight, the Dwarven soldier swore, cradling the bundle with a reverent air. It was only when the blade fell, its wielder caught in a lucky strike (and here a few snorted morosely – _lucky_ , hah, what luck their lucky fourteenth had succumbed to!) which felled him in the center of the first casualties of the battle, that roused their men with a furious cry.

It took but a few moments of glancing at each other; certainly the lot of them had some claim in one way or another, but the issue was neatly resolved with a poetic irony as Gandalf scooped the (yet another, their hearts leaden at the thought) body with all the mannerisms of a grieving elder taking over a young relative slain in war, and marched past them into the tent. Resigned, they followed, trailed by the newcomers.

There was neither complaint nor protest when the royal corpse upon the cot was briskly shifted to accommodate the no-less-noble one at its side. It was fitting, many of them supposed, even as Bofur removed his hat and loosed a mournful sob, that they be reunited in death. One had died at the very beginning, marking one edge of the battlefield's boundaries, whilst the other marked the other edge – where Azog had started his last hunt, and where he had ended it.

As questions were raised in the camp, Balin led the last of them throughout the grounds, and before long their story – Bilbo's story, Thorin's – filtered through even to the Silvan Elves and Laketown Men. Hours were spent at various bonfires, Thorin's Company relaying the bravery and deeds of those they had lost – not even Fíli and Kíli had been forgotten, the eloquent among them stitching the tales together into something cohesive. It wasn't necessarily soothing, this rehashing of memories heaped upon too-raw grief, but it did cauterize them and perhaps that was a better route. All of them had fought to their last, and not in the least for the safety of those around them – strangers, for the most part, but intrinsically kin in the way all shield-brothers were.

For their burials, it was a bygone thought to bury their Burglar alongside those he had, at least in spirit, fought for. The sight of the mithril mail – a kingly gift, protecting all the important parts that still couldn't have stopped the blow cleaving between collar and throat (a lucky strike, for an enemy who did not know they were so in that single moment) – immediately cleared the decision to lie him by Thorin's side in the deep caverns set in the very heart of the Lonely Mountain, opposite the royal heirs. Family should lie with family, one argued as they sketched the runes for each of the tombs, no matter if they married in.

The successful defense of their home – of all of their homes, really, for all that it had been fought under the gaze of Erebor – was bitter. Letters were sent home by those Dwarves who survived, soldiers and enemies and innocent bystanders alike buried or burned in mass graves for want of effort at the staggering multitude, and scraps of meals eaten before many forced themselves to their feet for – at least until a coronation – one final procession. King Thorin, they cried, Oakenshield and Orc-slayer. Prince Fíli, they bemoaned, the Brave. Prince Kíli, they wailed, the Spirited. Bilbo Baggins, they lamented, King's Beloved and the Valiant.

A wall was cleared, one of the few blank ones bereft of inscription. Many volunteered, setting hammer and chisel to green marble in a concerted effort to record the deeds and history of the freshly-entombed members of the royal family. Its unveiling was witnessed by even Elves and Men and lone Wizard. Hundreds of voices raised themselves in song as a final farewell, a kindly-translated version of the one sung so long ago in a hole under a hill. And so it was, that the untimely deaths of four of Thorin Oakenshield's Company were commemorated, preserved in heart and song and image.


End file.
